


California Blue

by Elizabeth_Woodville



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 1980s, Billy’s Dead, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Mentions of Stranger Things Characters, Road Trips, and tbh I’m still not entirely okay with it, but we’re all coping here, sibling relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:09:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21911980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth_Woodville/pseuds/Elizabeth_Woodville
Summary: Max is searching for answers. Westward ho, off to find the truth about her dead step-brother. Though she's gonna need a ride...Steve's not entirely certain how he got dragged into this. Then again, there's not much he is sure of anymore. Some closure might be nice, though...
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	California Blue

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my drafts since July, it's high time I do something with it. Thoughts?

_I. California Dreamin’_

She remembered her house near Hunter’s Point. Her little bedroom, hers for the first eight years of her life, the soft pink walls her dad had painted when she was a baby. 

She remembered Mom and Dad getting into it, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. Dad would storm off, Mom would cry and drink. So it went.

She remembered Dad leaving. Mom filing for divorce, marrying Neil a month later. She remembers standing in a stifling hot courtroom, wearing a godawful yellow frilly dress, the scratchy collar driving her crazy, the high socks pinching her knees.

Billy stood at her side, his blonde curls pulled back, clad in a slightly too-big suit. He glared at her, she at him, as they watched their parents sign the marriage papers.

She remembered crying, begging her mom to stay in California.

She remembers Billy’s black eye, and realizes he’d probably begged the same of Neil.

She wonders if Billy pleaded to stay in California, stay behind, perhaps with the mother he left behind.

Wondering didn’t matter now, she thought idly. She had no intentions of asking Neil, and she’d certainly never find out from Billy.

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_II. Lord, we know what we are...  
  
_

Steven C. Harrington IV was born on May 13th of 1966. The result of a Labor Day celebration at Martha’s Vineyard. Or maybe it was the Hamptons. 

He was, much to his chagrin, the archetypal spoiled silver-spoon little rich boy. With a name like Steven Clair Harrington IV, how could he _not_ be? His mother made him take piano lessons twice a week from the ages of 4 to 11, not to mention little league baseball, and his father fully expected him to be heir to the Law Offices of Harrington & Associates. 

It was WASP hell. And Steven Clair Harrington IV was heir to the throne.

Around the time he hit sixth grade, his parents had started going on more business trips. Young Steven, they’d decided, was old enough to take care of himself while they galavanted through London.

Paris.

Fiji.

Rome. 

Prague.

West Germany.

Madeira.

Rio de Janeiro.

Japan.

Milan.

Sydney.

Malta.

Mallorca.

Ireland.

And wherever the hell else they went. They’d bring him home stupid keychains or tee shirts. They were all stuffed in a box in the attic, along with his baby blanket and his high school yearbooks.

Steve didn’t mind being by himself. He’d bike to school, to the diner, to see a movie at the Hawk. It wasn’t terrible.

He’d realize, when he was much older, that he spent more time with the movies than his folks.  
Not that he regretted it. It was his escape.

He didn’t really see them as a Mom and Dad. He liked the idea.

(He remembered Will Byers disappearing one November night. Remembered Joyce, tearing herself apart over her son. The talk about angsty Jonathan Byers and his dead brother and absent father and insane mom. 

He never could bring himself to think Joyce Byers was crazy. All he could do was wonder. Would his parents mourn if Steve disappeared? Hell, would they even _notice?_ )

It was never Mom and Dad. Not past his tenth birthday.

They were Caroline Robillard-Harrington, the former debutante. Steven C. Harrington III, the most well-known attorney in Northwest Indiana. According to him, the Harrington lineage could be traced back to the mid-18th Century.

Steve, for one, couldn’t give two shits about Joshua P. Harrington who survived at Antietam, only to die heroically in Morgan’s Raid, or Lawrence Harrington, an ambassador, who once shook hands with Queen Victoria. Arthur Harrington-Cole who had been part of the Rockefellers’ inner circle, Adeline Harlow-Harrington and William Harrington, Jr., who came to the New World in 1837. Philip Harrington who allegedly fought in the war for American independence.

(For the record, he fought for the _British.)_

He wondered, if the family was so great, how they ended up in the most podunk corner of the American Midwest. 

He suspected their Hawkins residency had more to do with his mother banging Raul the pool boy whilst his father nailed the secretary who happened to be twenty years his junior. 

Sex conquers all, Steve supposed. 

It was a few days into November when he encountered the Henderson kid outside of the Wheelers’ house. He didn’t plan on adopting the aforementioned Henderson kid as a surrogate brother. He didn’t plan on helping to defend Castle Grayskull from the evil forces of Skeletor or whatever. He sure as fuck didn’t plan on getting beat up by Billy Motherfucking Hargrove.

(And yet, he ended up puking his guts out on the side of the road, concussed out of his gourd and fearing for his life. Demo-dogs were nothing compared to the five-foot ginger terror driving down Mackland Avenue in the middle of the night.)

Yep, that was when his silver-spoon life _really_ went to shit. 

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_III. In Memoriam_

There were three times Max ever really pondered the matter of Billy’s real mother.

The first mention she heard of the woman was the first night she ever saw Neil lay a hand on Billy. 

Neil was drunk out of his mind. He had Billy by the wrist, his hand was being twisted behind his back, the other was pinned against the cabinet.

It may have been the first time she saw it happen, but it was obviously a very familiar routine for the Hargrove men. 

_“Let me go, bastard! Lemme--”_

_“Where you gonna go, pussy? Gonna run back home, crying to mommy?”_

_Billy spit in his face, earning him a punch to the gut. “Fuck you.”_

_“She don’t want you any more ‘n I do,”_ Neil spat. _“She ran off and dumped you with me, didn’t she?”_

_“Stop it!”_

_“Lousy, good-for-nothin’ two-bit whore---”_

_“Don’t you talk about her!”_

A slap.

_“Course, you’re jus’ like her, aren’t you? Mama’s little bitch, huh?”_

Neil had staggered off, slamming the door and heading out into the night.

When she passed the kitchen, she saw Billy crumpled on the floor, head tilted against the wooden cabinets. A shaking hand ran through his curls before wiping the blood from his lip.

She heard a barely-contained sob as she walked past the door, and in any other circumstance, she’d’ve thought she’d imagined it.

Try as she might, she could never get that image out of her head. Billy, who was always so angry, so intense, slumped defeatedly on the lineoleum, looking more like a broken doll than the Billy she’d come to know.

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_IV. That Was Then..._

_October 29, 1984. Hawkins High Gym._

“Harrington! Hargrove!”

Both boys froze. “Locker room . Now.”

“Ooooh,” Tommy catcalled. “Somebody’s gonna get it.”

“Screw you, dickhead!”

“Fuck off, Hojnowski!”

Tommy flipped the both of them off before the whistle sounded, and the sound of squeaking sneakers and the rhythmic thunking of the ball once again filled the gym.

Coach Danforth looked pissed.

“Have you lost your damn minds?”

Steve cleared his throat. “Coach, I can—“

“I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you, Harrington,” he said, pacing before them. Steve shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench. 

“And as for you,” he turned to Billy. “Son, I don’t know what they do in California, but that will not fly on this court. Understood?”

Billy, strangely calm, smiled. “Loud and clear, sir.”

“Harrington, a word.”

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Steve. I expected more from you. “

“Sir, I—“

“One more toe out of line and you’re benched next game. Are we clear?”

“But Coach—“

“I don’t want to suspend you. And honestly, we can’t afford to get our asses kicked by the Raiders again this year,” the Coach said. “So. Are we clear?”

Steve’s gaze lowered, hitting the floor. “Crystal, sir.”

Danforth nodded and returned to practice. 

Steve opted for a cold shower and heading home early. 

As it happened, Steve wouldn’t play in the game against the Ripley Union Raiders anyway. He had a concussion and a couple of broken bones. Out of commission for the season.

The school paper, the _Tiger Tribune_ called Billy Hargrove the MVP of the season, a dark horse who could end up taking the team to States. 

Strange, how much can change in such a small span of time. 

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_V. In Memoriam, Continued._

The next time was her own damn fault. 

“Billy?”

“What?”

“You ever miss your mom? Your real mom?”

Billy slammed the brakes, pointing at her furiously.

“Don’t you ever bring that shit up again, you hear me?”

Max hadn’t known what to think.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I just… I miss my dad. So I thought, maybe---”

“We ain’t gonna have some _Brady Bunch_ shrink session, shitbird,” he spat. 

“Jesus, forget I said anything, alright?” she’d snapped. “You’re just like Neil.”

She’d been so intent on slamming the door and not letting him see the tears in her eyes that she completely missed the way he blanched and backed away at her comment.

Billy must’ve forgot like she’d told him to, because they never talked about it again. Max, on the other hand, couldn’t help but remember.

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

The third time, Billy was drunk off his ass. 

Probably stoned outta his mind, too, come to think of it.

Billy could usually hold his liquor like a champ. 

However, there were two days a year where he either a) couldn’t or b) didn’t want to. 

One of those days was December 31st. 

Mom and Neil had gone off to the Elks Club for some grown-up party. Lucas was in St. Louis with his family. Steve was somewhere in the Caribbean with his parents, and Dustin’s grandmother was visiting. The Byers were still recuperating from the last month, and the Wheelers were in Indianapolis. Billy had gone out, presumably to get laid and/or rip-roaring shitfaced.

So she’d stayed home, watching _Rudolph’s Shiny New Year_ and Dick Clark. Cyndi Lauper was supposed to be on at some point, but she was already bored watching all these idiots wandering around Times Square and talking.

Billy stumbled in at a quarter to midnight. 

“Billy?”

“Wh’s goin’ on, Max,” he slurred, tripping over the knitted rug in the doorway. 

“Jesus, how much did you drink?”

“No’ ‘nough. St’ll thinkin’.”

Max walked to the kitchen sink, filling a glass of water. “‘Bout what?”

“M’ mom,” he replied sullenly. 

Max almost dropped the glass.

“Wanna tell me ‘bout her?”

“‘S real pr’tty, Mass. ’S real sm’rt, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Loves violets. T’day’s her b’rthd’y. Shoulda sent some t’ ‘er.”

“Billy,” she whispered, suddenly feeling like an intruder. 

“‘E says I look jus’ like ‘er.”

“Who?”

“Neil.”

“Oh.”

“Dick.” 

“Yup.”

“Wonder if she misses me.”

Max didn’t know what to say to that. 

“Never c’lls m’ back,” Billy said. “Always call, b-but she n’ver calls b’ck.”

“You call her?”

“T’ld her to come h’me, t’ take me wi’ her. Always said, ‘maybe nex’ t’me.’ Never did.”

Max closed her eyes tightly. She wanted to cry. “Maybe next year, Billy.”

“M’be,” he mumbled, before falling asleep on the sofa. “M’bee.”

Max was crying as Times Square rang in the New Year, her drunken step-brother beside her. Billy slept fitfully, blissfully unaware that 1984 had come and gone, that 1985 was upon them.

Blissfully unaware that he wouldn’t live to see 1986. 

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_VI. In the still of the night_

_“Harrington?”_

“Hey, Rob.”

_“Jesus, you sound like shit.”_

“You know how it is.”

If the nights that left him shaking and sweating and reaching for the phone to call Robin were any indication, Steve was falling apart.

And it scared the shit out of him.

 _“Fuck,”_ she breathed. _“Need me to come over?”_

“No,” Steve said, clearing his throat. “My parents are home.”

_“Already?”_

“Yeah.”

_“You haven’t told them, have you?”_

“Christ, of course not, Robin! They’d chuck me in the looney bin.”

 _“I almost told my Dad,”_ she murmured. _“Asked about all the Russian dictionaries. Next day, I had a dentist appointment, and they had those little spinny stools... I kinda lost it. ”_

_“Don’t blame you,” Steve replied. “Still can’t listen to the radio. Freaks me out.”_

_“How could I tell my dad about being kidnapped by the Soviets? I can’t even tell him I’m gay.”_

“Hey, Robin---”

_“I’m a compulsive liar, Steve Harrington. A piece of shit, compulsive liar.”_

“Are not. You’re just a…. An awkward teen lesbian who avoids certain truths to keep people safe.”

_“To-may-to, to-mah-to, dingus.”_

He jumped, hearing the wind scrape against his window. “What was that?”

_“I didn’t hear anything.”_

“Seriously?”

_“Maybe the Ruskies tapped your rich people phone lines.”_

“The Russians are taking over AmeriTech now?”

_“They’re probably listening in right now.”_

“Yeah. The CCCP has nothing better to do than listen in on a couple of lame-ass teens having a late-night phone call.”

_“Again, Cyrillic isn’t the same as the English alphabet. Stop calling it the CCCP.”_

“It’s secret spy code. They won’t get it.”

_“I can see the headline now: ‘World Superpower Foiled by American Alphabet; Dingus Who Schlepps Ice Cream Tells All.’”_

“Man, I hope the Russians _are_ listening, Buckley. We really threw ‘em for a loop.”

 _“Damn right,”_ she said. _“Hey, you! Yeah, that’s right you Ruski asshats! Fuck you!”_

“Fuck ‘em!”

 _“_ _Poshyel k chyertu!”_

“Get the fuck out!”

_“Oo ti bya, galava, kak, oon a bizyanie jopuh!”_

“Kiss my ass, Commie bastards!”

_“Yob tvoyu mat!”_

“Burn in hell, motherfuckers!”

_“Zhri govno i zdohni!”_

They screamed at the phone until they were crying from laughter. He could see Robin, in his mind’s eye, laughing her ass off, clutching the phone receiver from her nightstand.

“You tell ‘em, Robin,” he said with a chuckle.

_“That was cathartic.”_

“Yeah.”

A beat, then--

“Hey Robin did you OD over there?”

_“No such luck.”_

“Bummer.”

Another pause.

“Hey, Robin?”

_“Yeah?”_

“Thanks.”

_“Huh?”_

“It helps, y’know? Talking about it.”

_“Steve, we didn’t---”_

He wondered if Robin could hear him blushing overthe phone, “You know what I mean.”

_“Well, you’re helping me out too, you know.”_

“So, you’re helping me just because I’m helping you? Selfish.”

_“I think our pal Erica would call that a free market economy._

“You know what that means?”

_“What?”_

He put on his best Erica impression: “Free late night therapy sessions-- for-- life.”

The line was flooded with laughter. _“Goodnight, dingus.”_

“‘Night, Rob.”

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_VII. In Memoriam, Part 3_

The next time Billy’s mother crossed her mind was six months later, in July.

Susan was out, running errands and playing the grieving mother. Neil was a couple towns over, at some no-name bar getting plastered. 

Max was home alone that fateful morning.

Billy’s room hadn’t been touched since he’d left it. 

The _Def Leppard_ poster and the pictures of cars and scantily clad women still hung where he’d pinned them. A sleeve of condoms and a bag of peanut M&M’s were on his desk. His stupid jean jacket had been tossed on the bed. 

Billy had very few possessions in this world. The only thing remotely sentimental, she mused, was the porn mags. 

Or so she thought. 

She didn’t really want to go through Billy’s porn collection. It was meticulously organized, probably alphabetized, and, she presumed, probably used frequently. But something was nagging at her to go on.

The bottom of the porn shoebox held several things. 

A glass ashtray and a Marlboro Reds box. By the smell, it definitely didn’t contain cigarettes. Sure enough, there was rolling paper and a Ziploc bag of weed. She unearthed a cassette tape, labeled _CA_ in Sharpie. Half of a sand dollar. Old Spice deodorant. A copy of _The Iliad._ More car magazines. A switchblade. A ragged bible, the kind they gave out at baptisms. A stack of papers: certificates, newspaper clippings, torn book pages, school projects, an assortment of polaroids. 

A photo of a blonde woman and a little boy on the beach. A handful of letters.

_Billy,_

_… I’m sorry._

_… I miss you, baby._

_… hope you’re doing alright…_

_… please call soon…_

_… I love you…_

_Love, Mom..._

A phone number. An address. A name.

Cynthia Gallagher.

She hardly knew where she was going or what she was doing, she only knew that she needed _out._ Needed to find this woman, the one who meant the world to Billy. Billy, who was hard-headed and hateful and mean and bitter and jaded and cynical and angry and spiteful but who loved this one woman more than anything else.

Billy, who died because of her. Billy, who’d lived as a douche, but died a hero. 

Billy, who is a dick. Billy, who is her brother.

Was. 

Billy _was_ a dick and Billy _was_ her brother.

And before she knew it, she’d skated across town in the rain, still cradling the shoebox, from Cherry Lane to Loch Nora, from her beat-down, battered house to Steve Harrington’s family McMansion.

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_1483 N. Chandler Ave. Hawkins, Indiana._

Steve should’ve known better at this point. Honestly, it was embarrassing. 

Max would skate over to his place, and let herself in with the spare key.

He kept hiding it. Under a brick, under the stairs, in a plant, taped to the underside of the mailbox, in his goddamn _car---_ Maxine Louise Mayfield was nothing if not persistent. And annoying. Damn kid. 

It scared the shit out of him that first morning, when he’d tumbled out of bed, bleary-eyed and tousled, and entered his kitchen to find Max fucking Mayfield sitting on his mother’s carrera marble countertop, drinking milk straight out of the carton, eating a goddamn sandwich, and watching _Full House._

He was pretty sure she’d never let him live down the unholy scream of shock he emitted that fine morning.

It was a ritual by now though.

Except he told her she needed to announce herself. Make her presence known.

She’d walk into the foyer, her beat-up sneakers looking out of place on the Harringtons’ gaudy Persian rug. And she’d scream at the top of her lungs.

_“STEVE! I’M HERE!”_

_“HEY, HARRINGTON, CAN YOU DRIVE ME TO SCHOOL?”_

_“STEEEEEEEEVE…”_

_“RISE AND SHINE, STEVIE!”_

_“GOOOOOOOOOOOOD MOOORNING STEVE HARRINGTON!”_

He’d stopped setting an alarm clock. She’d show up at his place, rain or shine, at exactly 6:42 every morning. 

She’d make them each a sandwich for lunch, and she’d raid the pantry for whatever name-brand cereal with the highest sugar content she could find.

Susan only bought off-brand, she explained, gathering an entire spoonful of marshmallows out of her Lucky Charms. And Susan only liked oatmeal. Neil liked muesli, and Billy hated cereal simply because she loved it. Steve was her only hope.

He’d shower and dress and race down the stairs. She’d catch him up on whatever episode of _Golden Girls_ or _Family Ties_ or _Mork and Mindy._ He’d never met a kid so invested in the plot of _Dallas._

He learned a lot about Max these mornings. 

He learned that she thought _The Loveboat_ was stupid, but she used to watch it with her Dad in Cali. 

Her parents got divorced when Susan cheated on her dad. She’d pleaded to stay with him.

Her birthday was March 15th. The Ides of March, she’d say, as if he was supposed to know what that meant.

She loved DigDug, but she was even better at Galaga. She could sing along to every Madonna song, had Van Halen’s greatest hits committed to memory. She’d kill for a strawberry milkshake and owned every _Trixie Belden_ book and had a secret obsession with _Little House on the Prairie._ She learned to skate when she was seven, teaching herself by watching the older kids at the skate parks. She thought math was stupid but loved History. She broke her wrist when she was nine in the final match of the little league softball season, and Susan wouldn’t let her go back after that. She secretly loved musicals, and had cried herself to sleep when, after two days of auditions and callbacks, she didn’t get the titular role in her middle school production of _Annie._ It was the first cassette she ever had all to herself. 

Her dad’s name was Sam, Samuel John Mayfield, and they lived at 83 Winchester Avenue just outside of Palo Alto. He was a philosophy professor at Stanford, and she used to sit in the back of the hall and listen to his lectures. 

She moved to Hawkins in August of 1984. Christ, she hadn’t even been there a full year, and she’d already been through more shit than most adults. But the rest was history. 

He could tell that she felt lonely in her own home. He could relate.

In short, it really shouldn’t have been a surprise when Hawkins’ own redheaded hurricane showed up on his doorstep at 9 a.m.

Steve skittered to a halt in the foyer. And the girl took it as her cue to run to him. Red hair pulled back in two tangled, messy braids, freckles splotched over her cheeks.

She’d been crying. She bolted towards Steve, flinging herself into his arms with a sob.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he whispered, pulling her into his embrace. “Max, what’s goin’ on? They fighting again?”

She nodded into his Hawkins Basketball tee. “Neil doesn’t even want a funeral, Steve. I-I tried to get ahold of his mom, but I c-couldn’t and Neil---”

“He didn’t hurt you did he?” Steve asked, his dark eyes taking on an angry haze. 

“N-No. I-I just---”

“Hey,” he said, pulling away to look at her. “Let’s go chat in the kitchen, alright? You’re probably starving.”

“I’m fine.”

“Passing up a chance to raid my cupboards, Mayfield?”

She sniffled, chancing a small smile. “Never.”

“That’s what I thought,” he replied, taking her hand. “Got a pack of Oreos with our names on it.”

She watched as Steve went into the pantry and rummaged for the cookies. The girl went straight for the fridge, placing a carton of milk on the granite countertop before climbing on a chair to retrieve two glasses. 

“Living room,” he said.

“But your folks are home,” she interjected, “You said your mom would kill you if she found crumbs on the upholstery.”

“Welp, Mayfield. Guess that just means we won’t leave any crumbs.”

She followed him into the living room, flopping on the sofa beside him. 

“So what’s going on, kiddo?”

“Neil’s a dick.”

“We know that. What’s happening?”

“He… he’s been drinking. A lot. Susan tries to reason with him, but that’s useless.”

“Is he hurting her?”

“Not when I’m around. He’s gotten worse, Steve. Now that Billy’s---”

“Max.”

“God, I fucked up, Steve. I fucked up so bad.”

“‘S not your fault, kid,” he murmured. “Billy… did what he thought---”

“Everyone’s making him out to be this goddamned martyr.”

“He’d’ve hated that, huh?”

“Yeah. Except Neil just goes on about what a waste of space he was. He tore up Billy’s room while Mom was picking me up from the hospital. I was lucky. I snuck in and took what I could. His jacket, some photographs, a random box of shit.”

“His necklace,” he said, indicating the small silver pendant she was toying with.

“St. Christopher,” she said. “Protector of children. It was his mom’s. She was wearing it in a few of Billy’s pictures, and there was a note in the box. She gave it to him when she left him.”

“Jesus.”

“I’ve gotta find her, Steve. I can’t let her go on, not… not kn-knowing,”

“Okay. Max, it’s gonna be alright,” he murmured, pulling her into his arms. She was trembling, and he could feel the hot tears on his shirt. “We’re gonna find her.”

“Is it fucked up if I kinda miss him?”

“I don’t think so,” he said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “Besides, nobody gets to tell you what you can and can’t feel. You’re entitled. Nobody but you can say what’s fucked up and what isn’t. And, hey, our lives are pretty fucked.”

“Preaching to the choir, Harrington.”

“Now, if you said you missed the demodogs or the Russians, that would be fucked up.”

“You’re fucked up.”

“Watch your mouth young lady,” he said, putting on a droll, prim accent. “We don’t speak in such manners at the Harrington Estates.”

“Indubitably,” she countered.

“Besides, it takes a fuck-up to know one, doofus.”

“Fuck you.”

Steve smirked, plunking an Oreo into his milk. “Max, what’s this really about?”

Max bit her lip. “Well---”

Steve raised an eyebrow, looking so bizarrely fatherly, despite the milk mustache. 

“I need to go to California.”

“What the hell you need to go there for?”

“I need to fix things, Steve.”

“Oh-kay, then? Could you maybe be a little less vague, or---?”

“His mom’s still in California,” she whispered. 

Steve froze. “Shit. Max---”

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but she needs to know. I need her to know, Billy---”

“Max,” he said gently, “we can’t just take off across the country to see a woman we’ve never even met.”

“Why not?”

And damn it if Steve didn’t have a good answer to that.

So he packed up his BMW and his red-haired sidekick, and started for California.

  
  


❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_VIII. On the road_

_9 a.m. EST. July 28, 1985. A Shoney’s in Edwardsville, Illinois._

They were in the parking lot, eating breakfast out of takeout boxes when his stupid walkie went off.

_“Mr. Mom, this is A-Team, do you copy?”_

Son of a bitch, these kids just wouldn’t quit. Max let out a stream of curse words and turned on the walkie. “This is Annie, over.”

 _“What’s your twenty? Over,”_ came Lucas’ voice.

“Shit,” she said. “We’re in Illinois. Over.”

_“What the hell are you doing in Illinois?”_

_“Who are you with?”_

“I needed to go to California. Hitched a ride. Say hi, Harrington.”

“‘Sup, losers.”

 _“Steve?”_ Dustin piped up. “What the hell, man?”

“Good morning to you too, sunshine. I’m doing fine, thanks for asking—“

“ _You’re a jackass, you know that?”_  
  
”So what’s up, Brady Bunch? Peter break Marcia’s nose again?”

Wheeler sighed with far too much chagrin for a kid his age. “Just _give the damn call sign.”_

“This is Mr. Mom. I fucking copy.”

_“10-4, buddy.”_

_“Fuck you. Over.”_

_“What’s in California?”_

“Don’t worry about it.”

_“Max---”_

“Listen, guys,” Steve started. “How about you don’t ask any questions, and I’ll host D&D for the next few when we get back. Capisce?”

Even Big Mouth Wheeler couldn’t turn that down.

 _“Awesome,”_ Mike replied. _“Rendez-vous at Castle Grayskull on Thursday. Over.”_

“Jesus H. Christ. If I’d known I’d end up nannying the whole goddamn Cabbage Patch, I wouldn’t have picked up.”

“Think of it as a rewrite of a _Full House_ episode,” Max piped up. “That’s how I get through their bullshit.”

“In that disturbing analogy, I’m John Stamos, right?”

Max smirked. “Who’s that make me?”

“The Olsen Twins.” She smacked his arm.

 _“Eh, it’s more like The Sound of Music,”_ Dustin interjected. _“But whatever you say, Harrington.”_

_“Stay safe out there. Over.”_

“You too,” Max whispered. 

“You shitheads stay outta trouble ‘til we get back!”

 _“Yes, Mom,”_ they droned in unison, before signing off.

Being goofy,talking and messing around with the kids… that right there made him smile for the first time since July 2nd. 

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_IX. That Was Then, part 2_

_Somewhere, deep in Steve’s memories..._

Steve had always been close to his Grandpa.

Manu, he called him. Emanuel Gaultier Robillard was born in France in 1901, the son of a seamstress and a milkman. Gramère called him Manu, and a young Steve was quick to catch on, never calling him Grandpa or Papa or Grampère. It was always Manu. 

Manu was the one who stayed with Steve when he was a little boy, when Mom and Dad went on trips. 

Manu moved in with them in 1973. Mama had been worried about him living on his own in Chicago. Gramère had died when Steve was four. 

Manu would sit with Steve, after Dad had loaded the luggage in the car, ruffling his hair. After Mom had kissed his forehead and told him to be good for Manu.

As if he ever misbehaved, Manu would say. He’d kiss his daughter on the cheek. 

He’d smoke a cigar, sit in his armchair, and read aloud. Manu didn’t speak English very well. He’d moved to the U.S. just before the Nazi Occupation. He’d left his mother and father and his own Grandpère and five brothers and three sisters and cousins and nieces and nephews and all sorts of family. 

He never saw any of them again. He didn’t know what happened to most of them either. And what he did know, he wouldn’t tell Steve. 

Manu was a good storyteller though. He’d tell stories of knights and damsels and wizards and monsters, he’d tell Steve about the _chausson aux pommes_ his mother would make when he was a little boy. The story of how he’d met and married Gramère. He’d tell him all about his homeland, the cobblestone streets of Avignon, where he’d been raised, the fields of flowers in the spring, summer trips to the beaches of Marseille.

He’d asked Manu about the war when he was about eight.

“How could they let the Nazis into Paris, Manu?” he’d asked. “Didn’t they fight back?”

“In their own way, _Stéphane_ ,” he’d say. “Some say we are lovers, not fighters. But we are. We fight for love. For beauty, and truth.”

“But they let the country be destroyed,” he whispered. “That wasn’t beautiful.”

“No,” Manu said solemnly. “It wasn’t. But sometimes, _cher,_ when the enemy is at the gate, they cannot be held back by any lines. Sometimes all we can do is keep living. Keep our treasures close to our chest, and keep living.”

“That doesn’t do much,” Steve said sullenly, kicking his leg against the chair. 

Manu smiled. “Hitler was an artist, _Stéphane._ But do you know what he found when he marched through Paris and into _La Louvre_?”

“What?”

 _“Rien,”_ Manu said. “They hid it from him. And when he went to _La Tour Eiffel,_ to the very top of Paris, the elevator was out of service. He would have to take the stairs.”

_“Vraiment?”_

“They took our homes, take our country, but they never took _l’ȃme du peuple_.”

Steve was silent for a moment, and Manu sat in his chair, staring out the bay window like he was searching through the realm of time and space for a place that was only an echo.

“Keep living,” Manu said, half to himself. “Always. Keep your treasures in your heart, _Stéphane._ But keep living.”

Manu had died almost five years ago now, just before Christmas during his eighth grade year. But his words always stuck with Steve.

The enemy was at the gate, the gate itself straining against the weight of those pounding against it. 

Sometimes, you just had to keep your head held high, and keep trekking forward.

 _Marchons, marchons…_ Manu used to say. Steve thought the song was beautiful. Once he learned what the words meant, he was slightly less enchanted. But he understood them now, in a way he hadn’t before. 

Sometimes, all you could do was hold on.

Hold on to what ever you could. To what mattered. To those who mattered. And keep marching on.

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_X. This is Now_

_July 8, 1985. Hawkins, Indiana._

There was no service.

There was just Neil claiming the body. Susan was the one who insisted there be a headstone.

So William Patrick Hargrove was interred at Mount Olivet Cemetery, plot 337.

She’d stood there, Mom and Neil at her side. Just stood there blankly, scuffing her patent leather Mary Janes in the fresh dirt until Susan had swatted her hand. Under the green canopy of oak trees, sweltering in her stupid black dress. 

The priest droned on for about five minutes before he seemed to realize that not one member of the family of the deceased seemed to care. 

Not a tear was shed.

She didn’t really pay attention. Neil shook the guy’s hand, like this was some sort of business transaction. Susan took her by the hand and walked back to the car. 

That whole day was a blur. 

The guys would call her over the radio, but she just muted it and sat in silence.

Should she grieve? 

She felt guilty for even thinking it. 

Based on what she’d seen, paired with the sound of the 49ers game on TV blasting through the thin walls, the familiar clinking of whiskey glasses…. Well, it was clear that no one else could be bothered to mourn. It was like any other summer afternoon, like Billy had just went out to buy a pack of Reds. Like he was cruising around town, searching for a quick lay, cheap booze, and trouble.

Like he’d be pulling up to the house any minute, stereo blasting. Like he’d be coming back.

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_One night in Hawkins…_

He’d often retreat outside on nights like this.

The quiet nights, when even the crickets fell silent, the moon obscured by clouds. The only noise was the soft whistle of the breeze. 

He’d look out over the patio, pool lights shining under the still waters. 

It was a night like this. 

A night like this, a year and a half ago.

A night like this, when a girl died.

Because Steve couldn’t keep it in his pants.

Obviously, there were other reasons. But it was mostly Steve. 

Steve and his pool, Steve and his big fancy house, Steve and his sex drive. 

Nancy said she didn’t blame him. 

She’d said it numbly, with unshed tears in her eyes. 

She only said it because she blamed herself. 

Steve knew better now. 

He knew the truth about what happened that night, what dreadful things lurked in the shadows. He knew that Nancy never really loved him, the same way he now knew that Hawkins wasn’t all that it seemed. 

He knew better, but he was still haunted by the ghost of a mousy redhead in his backyard, her coke-bottle glasses reflecting the pool lights and rippling waters.

A night like this, not long ago, when a blue-eyed boy was ripped to pieces in the middle of Starcourt Mall.

A shiver ran down his spine, as if Barb was watching from the diving board, silently judging his every move. As if the ghost of Billy Hargrove was breathing down his neck, dead blue eyes boring a hole through his skull. 

Steve could never figure out if he believed in a heaven or hell. He’d lost track of the nights like this he’d spent pondering the matter. 

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

After all, he did know better now.

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_XI. On the Road_

_Gas Stop #1. Lafayette County, Missouri._

It was incredible really, how quickly the two of them had fallen into some semblance of a pattern.

Steve would fill up the gas tank, send Max in with some cash to get snacks and pay. She’d get beef jerky and Pringles and a bag of licorice and a couple of Slurpees and maybe a postcard of whatever podunk place they were in, before racing back out to the BMW. Steve would be waiting, honking at her, sunglasses on and stereo blasting. She’d flip him off, jump in the passenger seat, and unceremoniously dump all their snacks into the cupholders. Steve would smirk, Max would go for the radio dial, he’d swat her hand away. And they’d race off through the Kansas plains.

It would be so easy, Steve thought, to leave it all behind, to live like this, life on the road, taking in the clear blue sky, the bright sunflower fields dancing along the winding roads, wild and free and unapologetic about it. To have not a thought in his mind, no destination in mind, only the road. Pretending that everything else was only a dream. 

Well, it was a nice dream, he supposed.

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_Lawrence, Kansas._

_The dream started as it always did._

_The heavy blue lighting of the hallway. Robin, Dustin, and Erica at his side like they were the goddamn_ Goonies _or something._

_The thick sound of a language he didn’t know punched him in the gut. Alarms started blaring, the room turned red, and suddenly they were encircled by a wreath of Russians._

_It would change night to night. Sometimes they’d tie him and Robin to a chair and use the cattleprod. Or they’d line them up against the back wall of Scoops, and put a bullet in each of their heads. Some nights Erica would scream and cry and kick until the Russians snapped her neck. Dustin would be mauled by demo-dogs, and he was still tied in the chair, helpless._

_They’d rip the boy’s limbs out of their sockets, blood would spray across the room, covering Steve. They’d grab Robin by the hair, throwing her like a piece of meat towards the bloodthirsty creatures. Its wide, gaping mouth, needle-like teeth would sink itself into her face before she could finish screaming for help, screaming for Steve. Erica’s_ My Little Pony _backpack was covered in blood, the girl herself was cowering in a corner, sobbing, kicking out at the dogs until one ripped her leg off like a chew toy. She never stopped calling for him._

_“Steve! Help us, Steve, please, oh God, please, Steve, Steve!”_

_The words got less and less coherent, until they were merely whispers, ghosts of voices, desperately trying to draw breath. Robin’s body convulsed until it stilled, and he couldn’t recognize her face. The bright blue eyes were long since devoured. Nancy had been shoved up against a wall, violated in every possible way, men and monsters ripping her to pieces until they finally slit her wrists and throat. Jonathan was lying spread-eagle, his head bashed in with a brick. Will was more scraps than person. Max was holding Billy, but this time they’d both bleed out, blood pouring from their mouths, noses, ears, eyes. El’s head had been torn off like a paper doll, her spine snapped; Wheeler’s head had a bullethole through it, in one temple, out the other. The rest of his body had been hole-punched with shrapnel. Erica lay silent and unmoving in the corner, her intricate little braids and beads torn off the side of her head, skin shredded. Lucas was holding his sister, gasping for breath in spite of his broken ribcage, the teethmarks turning his white shirt a horrid crimson._

_And Dustin would be curled at his feet. A Russian guard would walk past and kick the boy in the mouth, his prized teeth falling and shattered. He’d reach for Steve, with his one remaining hand, begging, pleading._

_“Steve, you were supposed to save us,” he’d choke, blood filling his mouth. “S’ppos’d t’ pr’tect us… Steve.”_

_He’d twitch and seize like a dying bug until the light left his eyes._

_They’d put a gun against Steve’s head. The last thing he ever saw was the dessicated husks of his friends-- family-- before the bullet went in one temple and out the other._

He didn’t even realize he’d fallen asleep until he woke up screaming, tears and sweat covering his face, stomach churning.

He clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from weeping.

Not that it ever stopped him before.

He glanced at the clock. 2:27 a.m. every day, like clockwork.

He choked on a sob, pressing his fist to his mouth.

“Steve?” a small voice whispered. 

“Y-yeah?”

“Nightmare?”

He cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

“Hey, Steve---”

“I need a smoke,” he said abruptly, grabbing his jacket and heading for the motel door. “Gimme a minute.”

She did. 

And then she followed him out the door.

“Harrington,” she called. “Don’t be a dumbass.”

“Huh?”

“It was just---”

“Don’t pull that bullshit.”

“A dream,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re safe. We’re safe. We’re all gonna be okay---”

“Billy’s not,” he bit out. He immediately regretted it, seeing the look on Max’s face.

“I’m not saying it doesn’t suck, Steve,” she said shortly. “I’m just saying that if you ever get over yourself and face the music, there’s a lot of people waiting to help you.”

“What, you my shrink now?”

“I don’t get you, Harrington,” she said, crossing her arms. “I don’t. You do everything you can to help others, hell, you play the goddamn martyr for a bunch of middle-schoolers you’ve met once. But between your overinflated ego and lack of common sense, you can’t figure out how and when to ask for help?”

“Don’t need your help---”

“Need or want, Steve?”

He took a long drag from his cigarette, still shaking.

“Yeah,” Max muttered. “That’s what I thought.”

And with that, she returned to the motel room.

She pretended to be asleep when Steve returned.

And if she heard him crying softly as he fell asleep, he’d never know.

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_XII. That Was Then, part 3_

_Mayfield-Hargrove Residence, two weeks prior._

Her dreams varied, but one thing was consistent among them: that goddamn sauna.

_“Max!” Billy screamed. “Let me out of here! You think this is funny?”_

_Will inhaled sharply from his place at Wheeler’s side, face paling._

_“You kids think this is some kind of sick prank, huh? You little shits think this is funny?”_

_No, she wanted to cry. It wasn’t funny. It was nauseating._

_“What is this?”_

_“Open the door,” he cried, throwing himself against the door. “Open the door!”_

_“Open.”_

_“The.”_

_“Goddamn.”_

_“Door!”_

_Billy was screaming now, punctuating each screamed syllable with a slam._

_“We're at 220,” someone murmured._

_Then Billy started to cry._

_“It’s not my fault, it's not my fault Max please it’s not my fault please please Max I’ve done things Max terrible things I didn't mean it I_ _didn’t mean it, I swear he made me do it, Max, it’s not my fault, it's not my fault---”_

_“Billy---”_

_“Please, believe me, Max,_ _he made me do it.”_

_“Who?”_

_“The Shadow.”_

_“It’s gonna be okay, Billy,” she heard herself whisper. “We want to help you; you’ve gotta let us help you.”_

_His steel blue eyes hit hers through the steam. “We’ll figure this out together.”_

_But they didn’t._

_Because the glass shattered, and Billy was flung against the far wall of the sauna. Claws were tearing_ into his flesh, painting his white wife beater a horrid crimson.

_She screamed, running for him._

_It’s not my fault_

_It’s not my fault, it's not my fault it’s not , he choked out._

_“I’m so sorry, Billy,” she whispered. “C’mon, asshole, please don’t. Oh, Christ, Billy… c’mon.”_

_He shuddered, his blood covered hand clutching her wrist._

_“It’s all your fault,” he whispered._

_The monster shrieked in the background, Billy fell to the ground with a resounding thump._

She’d wake up screaming bloody murder, hysterical.

The first few nights, Neil stormed in to scream at her, but Susan, for the first time in their marriage, took a stand, and raced off to console her daughter.

Susan had enough sense to be terrified, as frightened as her daughter was, even if she didn’t quite know why.

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_XIII. This is Now, part 2_

_Midday. July 29th. Six miles outside of Winona, Kansas._

“What are your parents like?”

Steve looked startled. “What’s this all about?”

“You know how fucked up we are,” she said with a shrug. “Trust goes both ways, Harrington.”

“We gonna play truth or dare? Braid each other’s hair? Talk about who the hottest guy in The Outsiders is?”

Max rolled her eyes in that painfully teenagery way of hers. “Rob Lowe.”

“What about Swayze? Or Ralph Macchio?”

“Steve,” she said sullenly. “If you don’t wanna talk, I get it. Just... cut the bullshit, okay?”

Steve didn’t know what to say to that, so they drove on in silence until he stopped for the night.

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_Nightfall. New Castle, Colorado._

“Wanna know the truth, Mayfield?”

“‘Bout what?”

“My parents.”

“Steve… ”

It took him four tries to light his cigarette with his shaking hands.

“What d’you wanna know, kid?”

“Steve,” she sighed.

“I ain’t asking twice, Max.”

“Dealer’s choice,” she replied casually, as if Steve opening up to her was a casual, nonchalant thing.

Steve took a long drag from his cigarette before letting the smoke curl in the air around him.

“My parents are… they’re not the most _present,_ you know?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever even seen either of them.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve ran a hand through his hair. “That’s ‘cause Ma spent the last nine months in Paris.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Dad’s in business. Stock market. Financial advising. International trade regulations. Economic planning. Wants me to take over Harrington Enterprises the day I turn 21. He and Ma split the firm, he was over in Beijing, then flew to Barcelona, then spent a couple of weeks in Perth, then he was in Sao Paulo for a couple months… Typical shit like that.” 

“They just leave you here?”

“Unless it’s time for the family trip to the Poconos or the ski resort at Lake Lucerne,” Steve said. “I’m a big boy, I can handle being on my own.”

“Last year,” Max stated slowly. “When you were concussed and beat to hell… did they even know?”

Steve shot her a bittersweet ghost of a smile. “‘Course they did. I'm still on their insurance card. Hospital let 'em know, and I got a fifteen minute phone call from Ma in the middle of the night.”

“They don’t call?”

“Dad’s usually too busy to remember he’s got a son, between banging his secretary and buying stocks in petrol and computers. Ma, she really does try, but, to tell you the truth, she still acts like I’m ten years old.”  
_“You_ still act like you’re ten years old, Harrington.”

Steve had to grin at that. “Damn right.”

“Still,” Max said. “You’re nineteen, you can do whatever you want.”

“It ain’t that easy, kiddo,” he said, flicking ash out the window. “I’m legally an adult, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’ll always be a Harrington.”

“So what, you don’t get to make your own choices? What happened to making your own destiny and all that bullshit? You just gonna sit around and let Mommy and Daddy run your whole goddamn world? Is that what you want, Steve?”

Steve took a long drag from his cigarette. “Not a chance. But you can’t always get what you want.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard the song. But seriously, Steve---”

“What else am I gonna do, Max?” he blurted. “My folks have been planning this since my Ma got knocked up. Steven Clair Harrington IV, CEO of Harrington Enterprises. My whole life, everything was preparing me for this godforsaken path that I don’t even want to be on!”

“Your middle name’s Clair?”

“It’s some sorta family thing, I dunno,” he said dully. “My folks are already unhappy that I’ve been tryin’ to make it solo. I was schlepping ice cream at a goddamn mall for a living, and my father said I oughta start earning my money like ‘a real, honest man.’”

“What’s that s’pposed to mean?”

“Means I get to go join the dark side and rule Indiana as father and son if I want a roof over my head.”

“But they’re not even home, why do they even give a shit?”

Steve tensed at that. “Beats me. I’m not their son. I’m their legacy.”

“That’s bullshit,” Max bit back immediately.

He smiled at her outrage, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray. “Preaching to the choir, kid. Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

 _It’s bullshit,_ Nancy’s voice slurred in his head. _You. You’re bullshit._

Funny, how the only two people to be angry on his behalf used the exact same word to describe his plight of existence.

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_XIV. That Was Then, part 4_

_One month prior. June 29th, 1985. 8:17 p.m. The Mayfield- Hargrove Residence._

Max had just opened the door when she was greeted by the sight of Billy coming down the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

“Where the hell’ve you been?”

“I was with some friends,” she said. “Am I not allowed to go out anymore?”

“I don’t give a shit what you do.”

“Mom still at work?”

“Duh.”

Max raised an eyebrow.“And Neil?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“You never said where you’re going.”

“Jesus, what’s with the 20 Questions?”

Max scoffed at that. “You look like a background dancer in a _Wham!_ music video. I’m curious.”

“Fuck off, dipshit.”

“What’s her name?”

“Does it matter?” Billy growled.

“Not really?”

“Then what the hell are you still doing here?”

“Christ, you’re bitchy,” she muttered. “Have fun.”

Billy huffed, but didn’t say a word, walking out into the porchlight. He disappeared into the darkness, the soft whispers of crickets and the cool breeze of Late June enveloping him. 

The headlights turned on, _Duran Duran_ blaring over the stereo, until the Camaro sped down Cherry Lane.

She didn’t realize that would be the last time she ever spoke with Billy. The _real_ Billy. 

Even if she had realized at the time… would it have really made a difference?

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_XV. This is Now, part 3_

_Somewhere just outside of Salt Lake City, Utah…_

“Dustin said Suzie lives out here.”

Max chuckled. “I thought he was making her up, y’know?”

“A fake girlfriend seems a little excessive, don’t’cha think?”

“Those dweebs play fantasy role-play games in Mike’s basement. They _are_ excessive.”

“Point, Mayfield.”

“More Like Mayfield: 17- Harrington: Nothing.”

“Fuck off, It’s like 9 to 8.”

“Which one of us passed eighth grade algebra?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Hey. Respect your elders, punk.”

“You gonna fight me, old man?”

“Don’t make me turn this car around!”

Max dissolved into a fit of giggles.

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_That evening, in an abandoned car park in Lovelock, Nevada…_

Max was asleep in the passenger seat. She looked so much younger than fourteen, at ease, at peace, content. Her red hair was pressed against the window, mouth open slightly. He wished he had a camera.

 _Night Moves_ was playing softly over the radio.

The lack of stars or streetlights on the open road was soothing, but Steve couldn’t stop his racing mind.

And damn it all, he couldn’t stop thinking about Billy.

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_XVI. That Was Then, part 5_

_October of ‘84. Mrs. Strzalkowski’s American Lit class._

Steve remembered, vaguely, that the class had been reading _The Great Gatsby_ when Billy came to Hawkins High. 

“Both Nick and Gatsby have built successful façades to fool others, yet they can now no longer distinguish their true selves from the one they have created for the world,” Mrs. Strzalkowski was saying, walking up and down the aisles. “How can we contrast this self-deceit with the imagery of the eyes of T.J. Eckleberg?”

Steve would end up staring out the window fifteen minutes in, rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. Strzalkowski was worse than Mrs. Click.

“Mr. Harrington?”

“Huh?”

“What are your thoughts?”

“My thoughts?”

“Yes, Steven. Your thoughts.”

Steve would play it off with the dumb douchebag persona he’d adopted. “Tell you the truth, Mrs. S, I’m thinking about how Gatsby’s a dick.”

Mrs. S smiled tightly, her lips pursed. “Well,” she said. “Do you think that’s his natural state, or is it all part of his persona?”

Steve could see what she was getting at. He didn’t want to, but he could see it. 

“Nah,” he said, twirling the cigarette. “No false pretenses here. Sometimes a dick’s just a dick.” 

Billy had huffed out a laugh. 

“Mr. Hargrove? Do you have something to add?”

Billy shrugged, sending a bitter smirk towards Steve. “Guess not, ma’am.”

“Certainly you have some thoughts on the novel?”

“Zelda Fitzgerald’s a babe,” Billy said casually, leaning back until his chair tilted dangerously. “But I don’t think that’s the train of thought you’re looking for, ma’am.”

“See me after class,” she said sharply, resuming her pace across the room. Her heels clacked obnoxiously against the cheap tile. “To answer my own inquiry, Fizgerald repeatedly emphasizes the idea that humanity, as a collective, is inherently dishonest, regardless of gender, of class, of wealth--- they're selfish, hypocritical, and destructive. And, as we see in Gatsby’s case, as well as in Tom and Daisy’s, and even, to an extent, in Nick’s cases, you may be able to fool your friends, but the eyes of God are always watching.”

The bell rang, and Steve was safe for now, cocooned in his facade.

He stood by what he said. Gatsby _was_ a dick. 

He had to be, to put on that fake-ass mask in the first place. To drown himself in lights and sound and money and parties and booze and that stupid whore, Daisy.

Steve understood it though. Except Nancy Wheeler was no Daisy Buchanan. And by that logic, he should’ve been the one to die in his pool that night. Not Barb.

But he realized that he wasn’t the only one who played that game. Strzalkowski’s class had shown him that much.

Billy Hargrove knew the art of masquerade better than anyone. 

He wore a very different mask than Steve wore, but one as carefully crafted and frequently worn as that of King Steve, Hawkins Heartthrob and champion of keg-stands.

The mask of the king would drop in about a month’s time, not that he knew that then. The old king is dead. Long live King Steve.

The idea of Steve as King of anything was laughable. His crown carefully crafted with Fabergé Organics and four puffs of Farrah Fawcett’s finest. His scepter was a cigarette dangling between his teeth, a cloud of smoke around him like he was leading a processional. Guys would fall over themselves to befriend the King, girls would line up and gawk at him, he’d greet them each by name and watch them swoon.

Influence is everything, after all. And there was something to be said for King Steve ascendant, returned from war, a knight on the basketball court, slaying the dragons and courting the damsels.

It wasn’t until nearly eight months later that he truly understood.

There wasn’t a damn soul in Hawkins who knew the real Billy Hargrove.

And there never would be.

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_XVII. This is Now, part 4_

_Noon in San Francisco, California. July 31st._

“Holy shit,” Steve breathed. 

Max smiled, letting the sunlight hit her face. 

“Why the hell would anyone wanna leave this place?”

“What, you never been to San Fran?” she asked.

“Nope,” he replied. “Looks like a postcard.”

Max gaped. “You’ve been to goddamn Switzerland, but you’ve never been to California?”

“Never said that,” Steve said wryly. “My mom’s brother has a vineyard north of Napa Valley. Although I usually opted out of those trips. But I’ve been a couple of times.”

“You haven’t been to Cali ‘til you’ve been to San Francisco,” Max replied. 

“In my defense, I’ve watched everything Clint Eastwood’s ever made. That counts for something.”

“I’m sure,” Max drolled. “It’s a good thing I know my way around.”

Steve’s head perked up. “Lunch?”

“Dumplings at Hua Xiatian in Chinatown. Oh, or Leitzl’s. It’s this little Jewish deli my dad used to take me to for Sunday lunch.”

“Lead the way, kid,” Steve said. “‘S long as it’s not more gas station beef jerky, I’m in.” 

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_Cimarron Valley Apartments, No. 73._

Max and Steve reached their destination around two in the afternoon.

Cynthia Gallagher hadn’t lived there in years, the landlord said. 

Billy’s next letter sent them to an old hospital near Palo Alto. 

She wasn’t there either.

Max was starting to get fed up, talking on the pay phone outside the library, Steve rushed out, handing her a photocopied newspaper and a page from a phonebook.

“Holy shit,” she breathed.

And with that, they hopped in the car, racing down the highway.

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_XVIII. Goodbye, Stranger_

“You sure this is it?”

“Yeah,” Max replied. “She’s this way.”

Max was wandering the rows and columns, searching and wondering, when she heard Steve say her name from a few rows away.

“Hey, Max,” he said quietly. “I found her.”

Slowly, silently, she walked to join him.

And sure enough, there was the soft gray stone, marked 

_Cynthia Mary Gallagher_

_Dec. 31, 1948- Nov. 13, 1984_

_And death shall have no dominion_

“Who picked out the words?” Steve said softly.

Max just shook her head. “Did it say how she died?”

“She was an addict,” he replied, reading off the paper. “Heroin. Crack. Valium. Benzos. Booze. OD’d in November of ‘84. Just before Thanksgiving.” 

“What else?”

“She’d been hospitalized before that. Records dating back to ‘79. Obituary mentions a couple of cousins who lived in San Bernardino, but nothing else.”

“She was alone.”

“Guess so, kiddo.”

“That was two months after we moved to Hawkins,” she finished. “Her last letter was dated November 11.”

“Christ, Max.”

“Billy… he never even got to say goodbye.”

“Neil wouldn’t let him see her,” Steve guessed. Max nodded weakly. 

“D’you think she did it on purpose?”

“Huh?”

“Do you think she killed herself?”

Steve sighed, pulling Max tighter in his arms. “I dunno, kid. I don’t know.”

“Maybe that’s what set her off,” Max whispered, burying her face in Steve’s jacket. “She was alone.”

“Max---”

“She left Billy, and then he left her, and she couldn’t take it,” she rattled off. 

“Max, hey, c’mon.” Steve pulled away to look her in the eyes. “You don’t know that, okay?”

“I hate it. Not knowing.”

Steve shrugged. “It’s not ours to know, kiddo.”

“The letters made it sound like she was coming back for him. Like she would swoop in and take him away from Neil any day.”

Steve didn’t respond.

“But she never did, and he-- Christ--- Billy hated her for it. But she couldn’t… she couldn’t…”

Steve’s hand was running through her wild curls. 

“Do you think Billy knew?”

“Beats me.”

“He hated her for leaving. Wrote all these nasty letters he didn’t send. He loved her too much to really hate her,” Max said. “He was a dick. But she was his weakness, I guess.”

“His Rosebud and Kryptonite, rolled into one,” Steve murmured. 

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

They stood there, God knows how long, the California sun beating down on their necks, looking at the grave of a woman they’d never met and would never know, until Max turned and walked back to the car without a second glance behind her.

Steve looked back.

Not that he needed to. For whatever reason, the neat script carved in granite was permanently etched in his mind.

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_Sunset. Half Moon Bay, California._

She had never seen Billy as a child.

He’d been a man by the time she’d met him, forced to grow up a little too quickly. 

She could imagine it though. The picture El painted of a young, bright-eyed blonde-haired boy, racing along the sand, waiting for the waves to take him far away from here. His mother, smiling, laughing.

The seagulls shrieking joyously overhead, the sun turning the sky a soft gold hue, bouncing off the white-capped waves like light ricocheting off a crystal. 

Enveloped in the sun’s warm embrace, saltwater wind blowing her hair every which way…

This was heaven.

Billy was gone, yes. And she couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

But she stood there in the sand, water running up to greet her, the early morning light blinding and beautiful. Watched a couple of little girls splashing in the waves, a little boy digging a moat around his sand castle. A young man and his dog racing along the shoreline. A middle aged-woman watching the sunrise. An old man, walking through the sand with a cane. A young woman running along the beach, walkman blaring. A father and son racing down from the dunes and towards the ocean.

Billy was dead. 

But she knew him better now than she’d ever imagined when he was alive.

If only she could tell him.

 _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,_ the waves murmured, calling out with Billy’s voice. Those last murmurs before his body seized then went very, very still. 

_I’m sorry,_ she whispered back. _I understand._

❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈𖡛❈

_XVIX. The Eye of the Storm_

_Hawkins, Again. Labor Day, 1985._

It had been nearly two months since Starcourt. 

As of tomorrow morning, Max Mayfield would be a freshman at Hawkins High.

As of tomorrow, Steve Harrington would be leaving Hawkins for six months. 

He’d filed his paperwork, sent in his letters, and had been accepted into the Indianapolis Police Academy. 

“I’ll be two hours away,” he said. “Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone, alright?”

“You’ll be back for Christmas?” Dustin interrupted.

“Do my best, Henderson.”

Will smiled. “Mom said we might be able to come visit.”

The Byers would be leaving in a month. The house had been sold, and Joyce and her boys and El were heading to Maine.

He’d packed his bags, loaded the Blazer he’d inherited from Hopper.

(“He’d’a wanted you to have it,” Powell had said, handing him the keys. 

“But what---”

“Take care of yourself, Steve,” he’d said, patting the teen on the shoulder. Flo had merely smiled and told him she hoped to see him running this station one day. He’d blushed at that.)

“Got everything?” Jonathan had asked. 

“Yeah,” he’d said. 

Byers put out his hand. “Good luck, Harrington.”

“Same to you, Byers. Careful out there in New York.”

“City of Dreams.”

He’d started to walk away, but Steve put out a hand. “Byers---”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Jonathan merely smiled, and went to stand by his brother.

He shook hands with Wheeler and gave Sinclair a pat on the back and gave little Byers a hug, but Dustin practically flung himself at him. 

“Be safe,” he whispered into Steve’s sweater. “Please.”

“You know me, Henderson.”

Dustin scrubbed at his eyes, chuckling. “Uh, yeah. I do. That’s why I’m worried.”

Steve punched him in the shoulder. “Stay outta trouble, okay?”

“Whatever you say, _Mom,”_ Dustin muttered cheekily. “Call me, okay?”

“Well, duh.”

Max was standing on the porch with El. Both of them looked teary-eyed.

El walked up to Steve, tugging on the corner of his jacket.

“What’s up, kid?”

She held out a small gold medallion. 

_Hawkins Police,_ read the top banner. The word _Chief_ graced the lower, followed by the number _380._

“Hop’s,” she said softly, brown eyes piercing his heart. 

“El,” he whispered, his own voice choking him with tears. “I can’t take this.”

“Yours,” she said simply. “You are a good man. Good friend, good dad. Just like Hop.”

“Christ, kid---”

She threw her arms around him. “Don’t talk. Hugs are better.”

He smiled, wiping his eyes. “Thanks, Deputy.”

“Deputy?”

“Yeah,” he said. “My second in command. Somebody’s gotta keep those boys in line.”

She giggled at that, before pausing for a moment, brows furrowing. 

“Max,” she whispered. “Take care of her.”

He nodded solemly. 

He didn’t know how to remind this girl genius that he wasn’t going to be at Max’s side all the time anymore. And El would be moving in a month.

But he understood all the same.

The girl in question was standing against the porch railing, chin resting on her hand. The soft breeze ruffled her hair.

Steve put the medallion in his pocket, shooing the boys away, and walked up the porch steps.

“Hiding from me, Mayfield?”

She cleared her throat. “You wish.”

He stood beside her at the railing. “You doin’ okay?”

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I’m… I’m gonna miss you.”

“I’ll be two hours away, kiddo,” he said, pulling her into a hug. “I’ll be home for a couple of weekends. And you’ve got the number, you can call me every night if you want to.”

“‘M not that desperate,” she said with a grin.

“Hey, I don’t judge.”

She elbowed him.

“Oh, I do have something for you, though.”

He walked over to the car, motioning for her to follow.

He pulled a grocery bag off the front seat.

“Didn’t get to wrap it, but... Coach Danforth usually cleans out the locker rooms just before band camp in August. Went back to return my gear and found this. Thought you might want it.”

He held out a green-and-white Hawkins Tigers tee, the number 14 embroidered on the back, the neatly print _HARGROVE_ curved over the shoulders. 

“Figured it might go nice with the jacket, y’know?”

Tears were clouding her vision now, threatening to spill over. 

“Steve…”

“I’m proud of you, Max,” he whispered. “So goddamned proud. But you ever tell anyone I said that---”

“Okay,” she choked out. “Okay.”

Steve ruffled her hair, and she playfully swatted his hand away. 

And with that, he got in the front seat of the car. He sent a last glance towards Nancy and Jonathan, a salute to Dustin and the boys, and a fond smile towards Max. Joyce kissed his cheek, handing him a tupperware of spaghetti Bolognese for the road. 

And with that, he put the Blazer in reverse, rolling down Maple Street, watching the figures in the rearview mirror shrink smaller and smaller until they disappeared in the September sun.


End file.
